


Get It At Home

by Ferritin4



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Grown Adults Having a Good Time, M/M, bottom!Alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferritin4/pseuds/Ferritin4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ovechkin hadn’t been very subtle about it. Nicklas had given Justin a very concerned look when they’d all finally made it into the lockers after the post-games.</p><p>Justin had given him a smile back, because Justin — well.</p><p>Nick’s 27 years old. He’s never won a Stanley Cup; he’s never even won Olympic gold. He’s never felt his heart break with the joy of it, and he’s probably never made out with anyone on his team because he knew they knew just how he felt. </p><p>—</p><p>Ovechkin, somewhere, somehow, has apparently been there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hi,” Alex says.

“Yeah,” Justin says, because civility is a part of the charade, “hi.”

—

Ovechkin hadn’t been very subtle about it. Nicklas had given Justin a very concerned look when they’d all finally made it into the lockers after the post-games.

Justin had given him a smile back, because Justin — well.

Nick’s 27 years old. He’s never won a Stanley Cup; he’s never even won Olympic gold. He’s never felt his heart break with the joy of it, and he’s probably never made out with anyone on his team because he _knew_ they knew just how he felt. 

He’s never had his sneakers squish under his feet because they’re fucking soaked in champagne; he’s never woken up with his linemate sucking his dick and thought about passing back out. He’s never seen sixteen lines of cocaine neatly laid out on the glossy surface of a packed bar: one for each LA goal in the series.

These guys are ready to play and ready to win. They’re ready to get the Cup, and they’re hungry for it, but they’ve never been there. They’ve never owed each other a fucking playoff game. They’ve never gotten called for tripping and given up a power play goal and done the slow skate back to their own zone to see their goalie giving them a look that says, _you better be ready to pay for that, motherfucker._

—

Ovechkin, somewhere, somehow, has apparently been there.

—

Maybe it’s the Russian thing. Russians, Justin has on good authority, are all insane. He’s been to the NHL awards: he’s seen Russians in LA and Vegas. There’s an ease to the way they party, like they fucking belong only there, doing only that. If Ovechkin’s never gotten past first base with a dude, Justin will eat his proverbial hat.

—

Well, that’s probably not what he’s going to be putting in his mouth, is it?

—

“You owe me,” Ovechkin had said as they were packing up, his eyes slitted and his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He’s not the most objectively attractive guy Justin’s ever had to get off, but that’s really not the point.

“Dinner?” Justin had offered. “Flowers?”

“All kind of things,” Ovechkin had said, and there hadn’t been much of a question to it.

Justin could have said _no_ : they all have that option. This is just a scoring record, and it does, in fact, suck to get it and lose it, but it’s not quite the same as losing the puck in the playoffs. Ovechkin will get there eventually. They did still crush the Flyers in an appropriately humiliating fashion.

But Justin’s on this team now, and, hey, he really does owe him.

—

Justin waits until the lockers have emptied out, until it’s just him and Ovechkin.

“So,” he says.

_So_ is a great word: it can mean so much.

“Hm,” Ovechkin says. “You owe me twice,” he says thoughtfully, and Justin’s eyes go to him like magnets. Okay. He can push it if he wants to. He’s captain.

He can’t push forever, though.

“Okay,” Justin says. “So two dinners?”

“I’m think maybe you suck me off,” Ovechkin says without remotely changing his tone. “I’m think maybe after, you fuck me,” and whoa, _oh_ , all right.

_We’re in the middle of the fucking season_ ,Justin thinks reflexively, and then he gets caught on logistics. “I’m not doing that _here_ ,” he says instead, because the lockers smell like rotting socks and linoleum and also they’re in fucking Philadelphia, so no. He’s not even getting down on his knees in the fucking Wells Fargo Center, yech. What was he thinking?

“We have hotel,” Ovechkin says, as if they own the damn Marriott, and then he walks out the door.

—

They do not own the Marriott, but Ovechkin does have his own room. He also has a bottle of vodka and a couple of glasses, which is both thoughtful and makes Justin feel like he’s fucking 24 again.

“Drink?” Ovechkin offers. 

There’s an easy way to address this issue.

“Thanks,” Justin says, and takes the glass and throws back easily five shots worth of plain chilled vodka.

It’s revolting. It’s supposed to make a point, and it does, because Ovechkin puts his glass down on the bedside table with a thunk.

“Sit on the bed,” Justin tells him, abruptly high on the hot buzz of too much liquor way too fucking fast. He doesn’t feel drunk, exactly, and he doesn’t plan to drink any more, but he’s still… drifting. It’s not a bad feeling: it gives him a pleasant looseness that feels like it’ll be useful. 

Ovechkin sits down, heavily. The duvet crumples under his fingers where his hands land beside his hips.

Justin drops to his knees between Ovechkin’s legs and lets his palms rest, just for a moment, on the expanse of his thighs.

He hasn’t done this in a couple years; based on the look on Ovechkin’s face, Ovi hasn’t done this in a lot fucking longer than that.

Ovechkin’s mouth falls open when Justin gets his fingers under the waistband of his basketball shorts and pulls, and this is all very — heavy, maybe. This is all very intense, Justin realizes, though he’s still mostly floating, himself. Ovechkin’s half-hard already and Justin has done literally nothing, and he’s starting to think maybe he needs to be a little more careful.

That isn’t the game, though. Justin doesn’t owe Ovechkin comfort; he owes him a blowjob. He owes him an orgasm and little bit of fun and that’s it, so.

So. 

He kisses Ovechkin’s bare knee, then again. He wastes his time kissing the soft skin of his inner thigh, slow brushes of his lips that make Ovechkin’s breath whisper through his teeth, that trail up and up until Justin’s where he should have been five minutes ago.

Ovechkin’s hand digs into the duvet when Justin presses his lips to the side of his cock. He’s fully hard now, hard and flushed and his eyes are half-closed and _heavy_ is just scratching the fucking surface. Jesus.

Justin takes a breath and licks up the length of him, just to hear the sound he makes, and oh, fuck, he’s not disappointed.

Ovechkin fucking whimpers when Justin sucks him down, chokes and spreads his legs and then Justin’s lost in it, lost in the effort required to do this right, lost in the way Ovechkin can’t seem to hold still, in the way he seems to be _desperately_ trying to hold still.

He’s speaking Russian now. His hand comes up to touch Justin’s shoulder and then drops to his own leg and Justin can see the skin blanch where he’s gripping.

Fuck. This is — fuck.

Justin breathes through his nose and goes down as far as he can, goes down until he’s choking on it, fighting his gag reflex from the thick pressure at the back of his throat. He can barely get any suction like this, but Ovechkin’s rough, cut-off moans are coming faster and his thighs are shaking and Justin feels like he’s drowning and parting the seas at the same time, like he’s the god of something small, the king in this little room.

Ovechkin falls back onto his elbows and rolls his hip up, barely a movement, pushing his dick deeper into Justin’s throat. It’s the limit of Justin’s capacity, here, but it’s also so, fuck — he’s losing it, Ovechkin is, getting louder and louder and less and less coordinated, and Justin’s not fucking stopping now.

Ovechkin makes a noise like he’s just been thrown into hell and comes down Justin’s throat without even a warning.

Justin closes his eyes and pushes down his innate desire for oxygen and swallows. He’s out of practice, but he’s got his fucking pride.

He pulls off as slowly as he can. Ovechkin’s not looking at him: Ovechkin’s not looking at anything. He’s still propped up on his elbows, breathing hard, his eyes mostly closed and his mouth hanging open.

Maybe that’s what he always looks like. Justin’s not an expert. You can’t judge people on their post-orgasm faces.

Justin open his mouth to speak. It does not work the first time.

“We even?” he finally manages. Wow, he’s going to get chirped to shit tomorrow.

Ovechkin blinks at him. He’s not — he’s still soft-eyed and fairly stupid-looking, but Justin could swear his face just went a little —

“I already said,” Ovechkin says, “you owe me twice.”

He sounds fucked-out and half unconscious; he sounds tense and afraid. Justin’s knees are starting to ache.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” Justin says, standing. 

It’s late. The room shifts slightly from the vodka as he gets his feet under him. He knows better than this.

“It okay,” Ovechkin says, far too serious. “I haven’t done ever, so.”

_So_ , Justin thinks. So. You’re going to end that on a fucking _so?_

He’s never — he’s never miscalled something this badly in his life, for one thing. How the ever-loving hell did he end up here? This was a fucking blowjob for a comically unlucky call, not — not, what the fuck. He doesn’t even know.

That is not the way this game is played.

He doesn’t think he’s ever taken anyone through their first fucking time, and he sure as fuck hasn’t ever fucked a teammate in the middle of the goddamned season on the fucking _road_ when he hasn’t ever even _done this before._

“Ovi,” Justin starts.

“Just Alex, okay?” Ovechkin says. Okay. Nicknames in bed are weird. Whatever the fuck’s going on right now, Justin can hear that.

Ovechkin — Alex — isn’t flinching. He’s quiet. Justin’s face has to be a horror show, between the vodka and his innate inability to school his own expressions, and Ovechkin is still watching him, shaded with hope.

Justin leans forward and kisses him, because if that’s where this is going then Justin’s not pretending this is about some stupid debt.

Alex sucks in a breath and kisses him back, and by the time Justin pulls away, he’s well and truly sure that this is not a part of any game.

Justin ducks back down and kisses him again, just so Alex knows he means it.

“Later, okay?” Justin says. “Right now I want to go the fuck to bed.” Alex nods.

—

Later, not that much later, when Justin is lying in his own bed, now officially pretty drunk and also exhausted, he wonders if he should have stayed, even if they weren't going to do anything.

Alex had seemed fine, though, and Alex goes to bed alone every night. He’s 30. He can probably tuck himself in.

—

The team does make a few remarks about Justin’s Lauren Bacall impression, but since most of them are too young to even know who Lauren Bacall is, their chirps mostly suck.

“Hi,” Alex says, grinning like an asshole.

He’s still captain, Justin thinks. He’s still captain in here, and when Justin’s standing in front of him in their home lockers, when Alex is in his pads, it’s still all part of the game.

“Yeah,” Justin says, because civility is a part of the charade, “hi.”


	2. Chapter 2

The room feels down. Losing to the Stars blows, apparently.

Losing to the Stars blows, but Jesus, guys. They played well, and they saw that coming, and if you think Justin hasn’t lost way bigger shit than one regular-season game against fucking Dallas — anyway. He’s feeling pretty okay. Chimmer, on the other hand, clearly wishes he could disappear off the face of the earth, and Ovi and Nicklas are more or less unfazed by every aspect of that game.

They should be. It was a predictable loss. As for 484, it’s a special goal, but for all that it was some frank black magic, it was also pretty damn predictable, eh, Nick?

Justin shoulder-bumps Nicklas and pats Chimera on the back on the way to the showers.

“Sorry, man,” Jason mumbles; Justin just shakes his head.

Justin’s 34 years old. He’s made worse mistakes than that. A bad turnover and an unlucky goal versus one of the best teams in the league is a fuckup, not a fireable offense.

He’s seen hits break collarbones; he’s seen hits break ankles and fingers. He’s seen fucking _innumerable_ teeth on the ice, and the rusty brown spray of blood on the glass. He’s gone down hard and he’s slipped in front of the net and screened his own goalie and he’s still here. It’s not something you can let get to you.

He’s never — never, _ever_ — wanted to be a goalie, but he thinks there’s a lot you can get from what they do, mentally. They’re singularly, fundamentally responsible for every goal that goes in and then they stand up and it means nothing, nothing at all. How they do it — Quickie’s unchecked psychotic anger, Holtby’s spooky zen calm, whatever — how they do it varies, but it’s a special skill. You have to let things go.

There’s just Ovi and Carlson left puttering around the lockers when Justin comes out in a towel and flip-flops. For every degree it drops outside, somebody turns up the thermostat in here. It’s creeping toward sauna levels; if you get dressed without being completely dry you start sweating on top of the dampness.

It’s gross. Los Angeles had some real points in the _pro_ column. He’s not excited for DC summer.

Carly has that _thing_ to him, that goalie thing, that settled nature: he isn’t reliving that game in his head every twenty seconds, and you can see it in the calm of his eyes. He isn’t twitchy or gloomy or buzzing. He puts his shoes on and leaves with a little wave, like he’s heading out to the grocery store.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, and Justin nods and starts digging through his stall for clean socks.

Ovi is watching him from his own stall, blatantly staring. Patiently staring, Justin thinks. He can see him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Justin to shrug his T-shirt over his head and pull up his boxers.

“Hey,” Justin says cordially. Socks are a go, so he turns around and sits, facing Ovi, whose stall is by the wall.

“Hi,” Ovi says, a new, vaguely familiar tension in his voice.

He’s dressed in a thick henley and jeans. He’s looking at Justin with a mixture of speculation and hunger. He looks like a guard dog, on edge.

Well, uh. Hello, Alex.

Okay, Justin thinks, fighting not to blink. Adjustments to his evening can be made. Promises have indeed been given, and with a little effort they can be kept. They’re at home and they don’t have a game tomorrow.

Justin does need some dinner first, and a few minutes to think about logistics.

Also, seriously. Now is the time for that face? _Now_? Justin bites his lip and tries not to laugh. 

It’s just the two of them, actually. He can do whatever he fucking pleases.

He drops his gaze and gives himself a slow once-over, because really, Alex? Socks and boxers, bro: have some self-respect. You can’t be macking on a guy who’s dressed like a frat pledge on a Sunday morning.

Alex is grinning when Justin looks up, no wariness left. Justin stands up and gets his jeans and sneakers on.

“There,” Justin says. “Have a little pride, come on.”

Alex’s mouth quirks up at the side. He doesn’t stand.

“What?” Justin asks. Alex’s face is a mystery.

Justin isn’t reading this situation wrong, not at the heart of it. Alex is not a sneaky person. Alex might be kind of confused and probably extremely conflicted — possibly also regretting signing up to get fucked for the first time by Justin and his five o’clock shadow and his three-year-old ratty-ass New Balance, yeah, Justin’s looked better in his life — but no one’s playing any kind of game here. Not anymore. 

Alex shakes his head like he’s clearing it.

Hey, Justin thinks. There’s no reason to be weird about this. There’s nothing to shake off. This is fine.

Alex is only three or four steps away. He looks up when Justin stops in front of him.

“You seem a little freaked out,” Justin tells him.

“No,” Alex says. “Maybe not so sure what I’m doing.” He smiles, brash and hopeful, like the fucking idiot he is.

Signing up for this with a _teammate_ , Jesus. There are probably people you can hire to take you through shit like this. There are probably thousand-dollar-an-hour professionals, with years and years of experience. Or, you know, there’s Justin, who showed up four months ago and is pretty sure he’s never introduced anyone to anything for the first time, except maybe Alec Martinez to LSD, which was amazing and hilarious and completely worth it but is probably not a particularly great character reference.

Crazy fucking Russians, is his point.

Justin puts his hands on Alex’s shoulders and kisses him, for the third time. It’s so easy.

Alex’s mouth opens immediately and Justin can feel the shudder run through him when his tongue touches Justin’s. Alex tilts his head back and _takes_ it, lets Justin push him back against the wall and take this shit over, hold him in place and thrust his tongue into his mouth until Alex’s breathing turns harsh, turns shaky and short.

He’s a big person, in ways Justin really is not. His legs are in Justin’s way and Justin thinks about getting a literal leg over and grinding down against him until he’s really fucking shaking, because Justin can do a hell of a lot better than _this_ —

Alex groans into his mouth, deep and desperate, and Justin pulls back instead.

Alex’s lips are slack, his eyes dark. He’s panting in the thick heat of the locker room; the rise and fall of his chest is very different under a henley than under his pads, that’s for fucking sure.

He looks blown away, all that lust undercut with a touch of fear, an undercurrent of anxiety.

Even the craziest fucking Russians get themselves in over their head sometimes. Justin’s more used to pulling them back from a fight than he is to this, but he can still see the signs.

He brings his thumb up to Alex’s mouth and presses it to his lower lip. Fuck.

“So what exactly _have_ you done?” Justin asks softly.

Alex’s lip slides out from under his thumb as his mouth closes.

“Blowjobs,” Alex says finally. “Hands, you know.” He shrugs.

“That’s it?” Justin asks. Alex nods.

Justin’s pretty sure he _really_ means just fucking that: Justin’s pretty sure that was the third time Alex has kissed a dude. Ever.

Fuuuuuck, Justin thinks.

Fucking Jesus, this is — just — _fuck_.

“Okay,” he says. That’s _it?_ Nobody’s ever even — “Really, though?” he blurts. “Not even in juniors, or whatever the hell you have in the KHL?”

Alex’s eyebrows go up, profoundly skeptical. Justin feels judged, and judged to be kind of a dumbass at that.

“In Russia, we don’t do,” Alex says, with a finality that makes Justin’s breath stop, just for a second, in his lungs.

Justin counts to ten before he speaks. He runs through his thoughts very carefully.

“Not even with someone you knew?” he asks. “Nobody even, I don't know, made out?”

Alex shakes his head. He’s got kind of a wistful smile on his face. Justin feels like he’s out of the circle, feels like he’s missing something crucial.

“No,” Alex says. “You don’t want give anybody that kind of, don't know. That kind of information on you.”

You don’t want to give anyone that kind of power over you.

Jesus Christ: this is heavier than American machismo; this is a hell of a lot more responsibility than giving Alec acid and taking him to an art museum. Alex came up in a system, grew up in a country where no one shared stupid kisses in the lockers or sucked cock or touched each other like that because they could be fucking — fucking kicked out, or arrested, or ostracized. He doesn’t know. Alex isn’t going to say, by the look on his face.

“Must have been nuts for you, coming over here,” Justin says without thinking, and Alex laughs.

“First time, think I just stand there,” he says. “Don’t know what’s happening.” He looks relaxed again, settled under Justin’s hands.

“Who’d you even fuck around with?” Justin asks idly. He brushes Alex’s hair back from his temple. It’s a mess, and still not quite dry. Semin, maybe? Or Nick, he guesses, but they don’t seem like that around each other. Not at all. Not in a one-and-done way.

Alex smirks up at him. Oh, fuck off.

“What the fuck ever, man,” Justin says. “Like you wouldn’t kiss and tell if you thought it would be a good joke.”

“Never,” Alex says solemnly, such innocence, “I would _never_ do.”

Justin pushes his fingers into Alex’s hair and gets a grip on him, gets him under his thumb again. 

He can see it in Alex’s eyes, that little shiver of apprehension. The caught breath of anticipation. Justin is the only one who’s been here before. Alex doesn’t know how this is going to go, not really. 

That kind of power over you, Justin thinks, and kisses him again.

God, it’s so obvious, now that he knows. Alex is barely keeping up, barely holding still. His hands are holding onto the the edge of the bench. Justin steps wide and gets his knees around Alex’s and Alex’s knuckles go white in his peripheral vision.

Justin kneels on the bench and shoves him back against the wall and fucks his tongue into Alex’s mouth, and Alex fucking _shakes_ underneath him.

His hands come up to Justin’s ribs and dig in. He’s whimpering, making rough high-pitched noises that get lost in Justin’s mouth. Justin untangles his left hand from Alex’s hair and skims it down his chest.

Alex’s legs fall open before Justin even fucking touches him. He’s fucking begging for it; he’s hard and straining against his fly when Justin runs his fingers over the denim.

Alex has no idea what’s coming, which gives Justin a lot of options. Justin — Justin needs to _think_ , fuck. Thinking is getting kind of difficult, here.

Alex’s mouth follows him as he pulls away. Alex’s hips roll up into Justin’s hand as he draws back and stands up.

Jesus. Wow. Not a game.

“Get up,” Justin says, and Alex blinks at him and stands.

Justin kisses him and then turns him around. He takes Alex’s wrists and lifts his hands to the wall, and Alex goes, because Alex, fuck. Alex is still breathing hard.

Alex is holding still as Justin pushes his henley up his back and unbuttons his fly; Alex’s legs are flexed and tense under Justin’s hands as Justin pulls his boxers down. Alex’s cock is flushed red and rock hard, and Alex arches his back and fucking moans when Justin’s fingers touch his belly.

Justin wraps himself around Alex and wraps his hand around Alex’s dick and Jesus, that’s a satisfying reaction. Holy fuck.

Alex’s mouth is hanging open again. His palms are flat on the wall and his hips are moving in aborted little thrusts, like he can’t do anything but that, like Justin’s hand on him is so fucking good he can’t help himself.

Justin drags his other hand down Alex’s exposed back to his buttocks, down to the back of his left thigh and then between them. 

Alex twists in his arms. He’s choking on air; he’s been reduced to harsh, trapped noises.

Justin can do better than this.

He nudges Alex’s feet apart and stops moving the hand on his dick. He can feel the sudden bowstring snap of Alex’s muscles when he slides his fingers forward, stroking from the base of Alex’s spine to the base of his dick. He draws his hand back, and forward again.

Alex’s hips jerk. His dick is wet with precome, so fucking hot in Justin’s hand.

Justin rubs his thumb over the head of Alex’s cock and whatever it was — _fuck_ , whatever restraint that was there is so, so fucking gone. Alex is moaning and fucking into Justin’s hand and back against his fingers and Justin could get him off like this, just rubbing back and forth over his ass while he jerks him off. Just this, and he’s going fucking crazy; just this and he’s slick with precome now, all down Justin’s palm. Jesus Christ.

Justin yanks at his own fly with his left hand until he gets his jeans down and his boxers over his dick. He’s not quite as close as Alex is, but he’s, shit. Yeah, this is good for him.

Alex goes still when Justin slides his cock over the backs of his thighs, between his legs, between his buttocks and then up and over his hole.

Justin feels the head of his dick catch and slide. Fuck, that’s — okay. God.

Alex’s thighs are trembling. The muscles of his back bunch and ripple as Justin drags his dick down and up again and then fuck, _fuck_ , Alex’s whole body clenches and he comes all over Justin’s hand.

Justin works him through it, tries to help him come down. Alex’s body slowly, slowly relaxes; he unwinds like a train coming to a stop. Justin unfolds himself and pulls his own clothing back on.

Alex is quiet as they clean up. He’s not standoffish, though, and when Justin looks him in the eye and picks up his bag, Alex nods and follows him out.

—

They take Justin’s car, because no fucking way is Alex driving right now.

They take Justin’s car, but they're going to Alex’s weird giant mostly empty Russian suburban Virginia mansion, because if Alex doesn’t have, whatever, lube and condoms and whatever the hell else they decide they need, then Alex isn’t ready for this. Alex might not be ready, and also Justin has some vague idea that it might be a good idea to have Alex’s own bed on hand for afterwards, just in case. They ought to be in Alex’s space.

“So,” Justin says, after five minutes of silence. It’s a good twenty-plus minutes of road to Alex’s house, and he’s not sitting here in awkward silence the entire time.

“Hm?” Alex replies. 

He’s sprawled out in the front seat of Justin’s SUV. He takes up literally all of the available space. Justin wouldn’t be surprised if Alex started spilling over across the console and ended up in his lap by the time they pull into the driveway.

“You don’t have to do this,” Justin says, and Alex shoots him some serious side-eye.

“Don’t _have_ to do anything but hockey, talk hockey,” Alex says. “Everything else gonna be what I want.”

“That’s very deterministic of you,” Justin says.

 _Deterministic_ is not in Alex’s vocabulary, Justin realizes as Alex cocks his head, his eyes intent; Justin can see the wheels turning in his head. He looks different, thoughtful, paused. Who does he — he looks like Nicky, Justin thinks. Exactly like him: that’s Nick’s expression on Alex’s face, which is surreal.

Well, hell, why not? It’s been, what, eight years? Alex has a community. Alex has people who know him inside out, whose expressions and idioms he steals and who can probably guess exactly what he’s thinking when he’s ruminating in their passenger seat.

So why the fuck is Justin the guy driving him home?

“Why didn’t you want to do this with someone you know?” Justin asks.

“Know you,” Alex says. He blinks. He looks like Alex, ready to smile, toothy and irreverent.

“Not really,” Justin retorts.

“Know you good enough to matter,” Alex says. ”How long you been in hockey? Three cups, how many trades? How much shit you have on people and never say?” He grins. “You think I don’t know you enough to trust?”

Justin fights a smile.

“Okay, but look,” he says, “just because I’ve probably got a bunch of dirt on other people —”

“ _Probably,_ ” Alex says snidely.

“— does not make it a good idea to put something like this in my hands, man.”

Alex shrugs. “Like your hands,” he says.

Jesus fucking Christ. This smug son of a bitch.

“Who even lets you out of the house in the morning?” Justin snipes.

“Nobody _let_ me do anything,” Alex says, serene. “I do what I want.”

—

Alex stops in the kitchen for a bottle of water and disappears into the bathroom. That’s fine with Justin: it’s Alex’s house, and he can wait for him. Moreover, Justin is fucking _starving_.

Alex’s fridge has — all kinds of things in it. Justin can identify salami, cheese, a cucumber, and whole wheat tortillas.

He make himself a cheese and salami tortilla and eats it without listening to Alex move between his bathroom and his bedroom, without really paying attention.

They’re here. Justin’s here until Alex freaks out and tells him to leave or it’s morning and time to go to practice. He’s okay with either outcome.

He’s okay with either outcome. How old was he the first time he had sex with someone? 17? He’d kissed girls first, because it was what everyone spent all their time trying to do and girls have a whole other thing going on, but when you’re in juniors there’s a lot more dudes around. He doesn’t know how many of them had their first sexual experiences with a roomie, or at least a teammate, but he’d bet a lot more than would like to admit it.

He’s okay with it. He doesn’t sleep with guys often, but it doesn’t scare him when he does. He likes it. He likes it without it taking anything away from him, without it making him feel like he’s lost his right to any part of himself.

If he did this all the damn time, he might have a better idea of how to convey that whole — side of things to Alex tonight. He dusts his hands off in the sink and ducks into the empty bathroom.

He steals a toothbrush — there are six, in varying states of bristle decay — and gets the aftertaste out of his mouth.

“You okay?” he calls. Maybe Alex really isn’t. Maybe this is over already, which would suck because Justin’s dick is still half-hard and more than a little warm with the memories, but fuck it. He can live with memories like that.

Justin sticks his head out of the bathroom and smacks directly into Alex’s shoulder, like something out of the Three Stooges.

“Ow,” he says, as Alex says, “Shit.”

“Hey there,” Justin says. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Alex says. “You gonna stay in kitchen forever?”

Justin leans against the doorjamb and looks at him.

He hasn’t changed clothes or anything so obvious. He hasn’t brushed his hair and Justin can’t tell if he brushed his teeth; he’s the same, on the outside.

He’s practically a statue, though. He’s standing so still.

“ _Are_ you okay?” Justin asks again, holding Alex’s gaze.

“Yes,” Alex says.

“Lead the way,” Justin says.

—

Alex’s whole house is huge and absurd. It’s a maze and it’s confusing as all hell to imagine one person living here, but his bedroom, when they make it, is pretty fucking luxe.

He has a king bed — why not, Justin thinks, when you’ve got the money and the space — and a TV on the far wall. He has a dresser made of something dark and expensive and probably endangered. The carpet is soft and incredibly plush under Justin’s feet.

Alex sits down on the bed and pulls his socks off, then shucks his pants.

“You want to slow down for a minute?” Justin tells him, laughing.

Alex looks up at him, his eyes sparkling, cheeky and fucking full of it, totally himself again.

“Not really,” he says.

They’re hockey players: they can strip like it’s a race. They’re also pretty partial, you know, to races.

Justin loses by his right sock, which he throws in Alex’s face.

“Foul!” Alex cries. “How is not a penalty?” He tosses the sock on the floor. “Four minutes, for — don’t know —”

“What, a double minor?” Justin says indignantly. “For a _sock_? You’re getting soft, Jesus.”

Alex gives him the most appalling double-entendre of a smile. For God’s sake. What are they, twelve?

“Okay, lie down,” Justin says sternly. “Maybe cover your face with a pillow, Jesus.”

Alex flops backward and spreads out. Christ, he takes up a lot of space.

Justin sits down on the side of the bed and runs his hand up Alex’s leg to his hip, traces a path over his ribs until he runs into a collarbone. He’s huge, even for hockey, even for these giant people who surround Justin every day.

“Hi,” Alex says. He props himself up on his elbows.

Alex has never rolled around in bed with a man, Justin thinks. He’s never curled up against the pillows and made out without really aiming for anything.

“Where’s your lube and all that?” Justin asks, rolling all the way onto the bed. Alex turns over to go for it, and — “Hey, I’m just asking,” Justin says. “Hey. Give me a minute.”

Alex sits up. The bedside table drawer is half-open. The ease of a minute ago is gone, evaporated into nothing. Damn it. Well.

Justin is going to solve every weird moment with Alex by kissing him, from here on out. It works so fucking well.

It works _so_ well. Alex melts into the bedspread under Justin’s hands, putty or jelly or fuck even knows what — soft and pliable, needy and sweet. He kisses back a little, which is a great new development but nothing Justin can’t use to his own advantage. He sinks down until he’s laid out on top of Alex and rocks down against him.

“Ah,” Alex groans, “fuck, that —”

That’s a whole new fucking chapter, is what that is. Justin’s dick is way past the memories and on to the present, now.

Alex shifts and brings his knees up on either side of Justin, and — _fuck_ , fine. Okay. That was apparently Justin’s minute.

Justin leaves him there to collect lube and a condom. Alex hasn’t moved when he settles himself back between Alex’s legs.

He smooths his palm down Alex’s thigh, and Alex’s eyes fall shut.

Alex came, what, twenty minutes ago? And he’s already thickening up, already flushed across his cheeks and over the soft-looking skin of his throat. He’s already breathing so fucking carefully, like he’s getting ready for it.

Justin snaps the lube open; Alex doesn’t move.

It’s cold on his fingers but not that cold. Alex came twenty minutes ago, and Alex is fucking — Jesus, fucking _look_ at him, laid out like he’d do anything for this, like he wants it more than he can even deal with.

Justin sets his free hand on Alex’s hip and presses his finger against his hole, just — just pressure.

“Oh,” Alex breathes. “Fuck.”

Justin pushes a little harder, pushes _in_ , and oh, fuck is right. Oh, fuck, Alex is tight; oh, fuck, look at him, look at — oh, _fuck_. 

Alex sucks his lower lip into his mouth. Justin can feel him forcibly relax.

He wants to get fucked: he wants this. He wants it so badly he’s decided to take _Justin_ up on the offer. He wants it enough to push through whatever’s been stopping him these past ten years, and Justin, well, Justin can manage that.

Justin slides his finger back until it’s all the way out and pushes back in, faster, a little harder. Alex’s stomach jumps.

His dick's not soft, though. He’s not frowning and he’s not saying _stop_. Justin picks up the pace and Alex’s knees fall open; his shoulders shift against the pillows.

Justin pushes a second finger into him, and shit, he’s really fucking tight. Justin does not need to think about that around his dick. He twists his fingers and presses hard over Alex’s prostate, just, you know, just to check how he likes —

“ _Fuck_ ,” Alex cries, broken and hoarse; okay. Okay. They can keep that up for a minute. Justin pins Alex’s hips down and fucks into him, in and up and holy shit, Alex is coming _apart_.

Alex’s cockhead is slick and wet, leaking onto his stomach. Justin’s never seen anyone get like that, not without a hell of a lot of coaxing, but every in-stroke makes Alex’s cock jerk and it’s fucking _dripping_ off him, Jesus Christ. Alex’s hips start working down on Justin’s fingers when he adds a third. Justin’s dick is so fucking hard. It’s been a long goddamned night.

“Roll over,” Justin tells him.

He doesn’t bother with fingers again: he needs both hands to get the damn condom on and if Alex isn’t ready for this now, Justin doesn’t fucking know when he will be. He’s got his face in his hands and his elbows on the covers and he looks pretty ready.

Justin bites down hard on his tongue when he pushes in, because he knows, he knows it’s going to be —

Oh, Jesus fuck. God, he’s so fucking _tight_ and he’s still giving it up for Justin, still letting him in, letting him sink deeper and deeper until he’s pressed up against Alex’s ass. He drops his forehead onto Alex’s spine and tries to get some air into his lungs.

Shit, this feels amazing.

Justin pulls out, which is not any less mind-breaking than the push in, and then slides back in, slower this time. Alex isn’t making much noise down there, which is fine, but Justin needs _some_ cues if he’s going to do this remotely right.

Halfway in, Alex’s body jolts like he’s been shocked.

“Yeah?” Justin manages. Jesus, he sounds _rough_.

“Yes,” Alex pants. “I — fuck, _yes_ ,” so Justin pulls back and does it again.

Alex stops being quiet as fast as Justin would have guessed, and then he starts making soft, helpless _ah, ah_ noises into the blankets as Justin works his cock into him as well as he can.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

There’s only so long Justin can keep this up. Alex says something pleading in Russian when Justin finally pushes all the way into him again.

“Shit,” Justin says. “Alex. Alex, you — do you need —”

Alex arches his back and drops his shoulder to the bed and Justin can _feel_ the moment when Alex’s hand reaches his dick. Oh, God. He’s jerking himself so fast, and Justin can barely — barely fucking keep up, even with both hands on Alex’s hips, even fucking into him as hard as he can.

“Come on,” Justin rasps. “Come on, _fuck_ , Alex.”

Alex’s face when he comes, holy shit. Alex’s fucking _body_ when he comes, the long line of him, the impossible clench of him around Justin’s cock, the way he twists against the bed like it’s too good to contain, too good to stand.

It is. Jesus, it is.

Justin drops his head back and comes harder than he has in years.

Alex is content to let Justin slowly extricate himself. He makes a soft hiss when Justin pulls out, but past that he’s more or less inert. Justin staggers to the ensuite and washes his hands and throws away the condom and tries to remember how the muscles in his legs are actually supposed to work.

Alex has thrown the top blanket off the bed onto the floor when Justin comes back, and he’s under the rest of the sheets, presumably cleaned up. He looks drowsy and sated, which, good: he fucking should.

Justin finds his boxers and hits the lights, then crawls under the covers before he falls down.

“How’re you doing?” he asks. Alex is taking up a fair amount of the bed. Justin pats around until he finds Alex’s arm.

“Good,” Alex says.

“Well, there you go,” Justin says. “It’s not so weird.” Alex snorts.

“Super weird,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Justin says. “You liked it.”

“Yeah, maybe I’m weird,” Alex shoots back.

There’s no bitterness in his voice, but Justin still flounders blindly until he finds Alex’s face with his hand.

“It’s not weird,” he says.

Alex kisses him back this time, as though they’d done this for months. His arm comes around Justin; his hand lands on Justin’s back.

“Come here,” Justin says, applying himself to the task of cuddling someone easily forty pounds heavier than him.

This is where it should probably be someone other than Justin. This is where an old in-joke would help, or at least some knowledge of Alex’s romantic history, some understanding of what past relationships have meant to him. All Justin has is two arms and a tolerance of Alex breathing into his neck as he curls up and tucks his face beside Justin’s.

“You okay?” Justin says. It’s basically a whisper. He can’t see Alex’s eyes in the dark.

“Maybe,” Alex says.

“You’re okay,” Justin tells him. That was a stupid question to ask. Alex doesn’t have a fucking clue how this is supposed to go, and Justin really shouldn’t forget that.

“Okay,” Alex says softly. His chest trembles slightly on an inhale. Shit.

Justin runs his hand up and down Alex’s back. He’s not sure if it’s comforting or patronizing, but it’s what he’s got. Alex settles, finally: his breathing steadies. He nudges his head at Justin’s chin, like a cat.

“It’s good,” Alex says, vague enough that Justin opts to kiss his forehead instead of responding.

It’s like hitting a switch. Alex is asleep before Justin can tell when it happened.

It’s good, he thinks. Probably. It’s good if they want it to be. They can keep it good, if they try.


End file.
